


Short Circuit

by ggfoye



Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [11]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Book 2: A Court of Mist and Fury, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Control, Magic training, One-Shot, Outburst, Pre Mating Bond, Protective Rhysand, Psychological Trauma, okay so i may or may not have been a bit AELIN inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggfoye/pseuds/ggfoye
Summary: Magic training doesn’t always go so well.Feyre has a power outburst following an argument and a flashback-driven panic attack while training with Rhys. He’s heartbroken and does whatever he can to help her.One-Shot. Set during ACOMAF.I do not own any of the characters, Sarah J. Maas does.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: Feysand One-Shots (Fluff, Smut, Angst) [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942270
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	Short Circuit

**Author's Note:**

> this happens some time before their trip to the summer court. i honestly feel like we didn’t have enough scenes about feyre’s power reach ):

The effort it took to slowly and carefully melt the ice cube she'd summoned was making little drops of sweat stream down her forehead.

Precision. Not force.

Rhys said she had to work on her _precision_.

She couldn't just burn it away completely. She had to create only heat enough to let it naturally turn into water.

Feyre closed her eyes, focusing on keeping her magic restricted to that little spot under the levitating cube in front of her. But her magic sang in her blood, begging to be let out. Her grip on its leash grew more and more slippery. It was like trying to thread a needle with greasy hands while her vision faltered with the effort.

She blinked a few times, trying to take back control. A few more seconds and the ice cube would be gone.

Her hands started shaking and she let out a heavy breath through her mouth. Her fire was blazing inside her while she was only allowed to let a single, tiny flame out, and she could feel it taking over her body instead, grabbing onto whatever it could. She was staring so intently at that lingering piece of ice she could feel her eyes gradually changing color, the blue gray merging with carmine orange while that drop of Beron's magic fought for dominance inside her.

 _Just a little longer_ , Rhys murmured inside her mind.

 _Easy for you to say_ , she groaned.

Just a tiny, little ball was all that was left.

She could do this. It would be ten seconds, at most.

Her knees were trembling now, on the verge of buckling down. She dug her nails so deep into her palms she could smell the blood.

Eight seconds.

_Breathe, Feyre._

She couldn't, or else the air might come out of her as if she were a goddamned freaking dragon.

_That would be interesting to watch._

She fumed at him and he laughed.

Five seconds.

Her heart was beating so fast in her chest she thought it might eventually burst out of her. The flame grew an inch.

 _Calm down_ , Rhys said soothingly.

That only infuriated her more.

Three seconds.

Her mouth tasted like hot ash. She blinked, and when her eyes opened, they burned brighter. Burned with a sharp, blazing fire she knew was visible to everyone around her by the way they looked at her, greatly startled.

One second.

And she exploded.

The flames were contained within herself—at least that she had been able to manage. But aside from her face, her whole body was on fire. And even though the sight surprised, and even scared her a bit, her blood was pouring out relief, having finally stopped boiling up inside her. She could feel her veins cooling off, her mind clearing out, her breathing becoming steadier and easier.

The sound of swords clashing had stopped for a while, so she knew Cassian and Azriel were also watching her, slightly appalled. Rhys, on the other hand, seemed strangely in awe.

Feyre took a deep breath and began putting out the flames, slowly withdrawing them towards her extremities until they were only at the tip of her hair and fingers, dying out calmly like melting candles.

For a second, she thanked the Cauldron that she was wearing her illyrian leathers, or else she might have completely burned through her clothes. The suit had shrinked slightly, tightening up a bit uncomfortably and unnaturally around her, but at least it covered her.

Rhys pretended to pout, grimacing at her thoughts and realization, and she splashed a great amount of water on his face, which he did not shield from.

"I like it better like this, anyway," he teased her, wiping his eyes and checking her figure teasingly. "But now tell me, are your _underthings_ intact?"

Her eyes narrowed at his insolence, but she soon put on a daring smirk.

"What underthings?", she asked in a falsely innocent tone.

His smile was purely feline.

Cassian and Azriel cleared their throats and quickly continued about with their business, keeping on sparring. Feyre ignored them.

"Come on, you can do better," Rhys said, motioning for her to keep going.

"Are you kidding? Do you want me to burn this place to the ground?"

"I'd like to see you try," he blinked.

Feyre puffed, annoyed. "Can't I just train with water now?"

"No, you're clearly already great it," he said, pointing to his still damp face.

"I've never tried _freezing_ anyone...", she mused, glancing suggestively at Rhys. The sound of the sword fight faltered for a second, and she could've sworn she heard Cassian scoff a laughter.

Rhys smirked. "Come on. Fire, _Feyre_."

She rolled her eyes.

"Would you like to try shapeshifting, then?"

His words hit her harder than they should have. She had no idea if he'd done it on purpose or not, but that had been a low blow, and he realized it as soon as he saw her jaw clench. His eyes lost their amused expression and assumed a more solemn, serious one.

"Come on, now. Fire."

Rage and Beron's magic were not a good combination. Her hands instantly engulfed in blue, almost white fire.

A piece of paper appeared right in front of her—Rhys conjured it.

"Burn it slowly. Do _not_ let it consume it. Control it."

Feyre nodded, though grudgingly.

"And your hands... you don't have to use them. Use your mind."

"It helps keep the magic in check."

"It's just a crutch. It's better not to need it."

Feyre sighed, irritated, but abided and put out the flames from her hands. She began by taking a deep breath and approaching the corner of the paper, sending small, tinkling sparks. Tiny pieces of ash started raining down.

It felt easier this time and she was growing more confident. The magic wasn't screaming inside her, for once. Maybe she was just in need to let it out a bit, earlier before.

The paper shrank slowly until it was only a little black ball of ash, then fell to the floor.

"Good," Rhys said, not sounding too impressed, then conjured another paper sheet. "Again."

Feyre puffed. "You're joking, right?"

"Not at all. Go."

She glanced once at the paper and maneuvered the fire to shred it into six perfect squares before destroying each completely. She raised a brow and crossed her arms against her chest.

"That's not what I asked," he muttered.

"I don't care."

Rhysand scoffed a humorless laugh. "You don't _care_? You do know that mastering these skills is one of the only two things that will stand between you and death in the upcoming war, right?"

"I do know that. That's why I'm _practicing._ I'm here every damn dawn even though I don't _care_ , even though I don't even know what's the point since we're all probably going to die anyway."

" _Stop_ saying that like you're expecting that to happen! Stop saying that like you're _compliant_ with the idea that you might...", Rhys' breath became heavy and uneven as he stared furiously and exasperated at Feyre, unable to mouth the words.

Feyre flinched a bit at his tone, but mostly at his implication.

But she was tired. So, but so tired. If it wasn't for the fact that hell was breaking loose around them, she might not even have the energy to get out of bed in the morning. Cauldron, she _didn't_ have the energy. But she did it anyway. Because her sisters—her _human_ , vulnerable sisters—were right on the other side of that wall. Because there were treasured things like Velaris, a city which she wasn't yet able to appreciate in all its beauty. Because other people depended on her, _not_ because she cared whether she might make it out alive or not. That was the least of her concerns.

Feyre hadn't double-checked the condition which stood her mental walls, but by the desperate look on Rhysand's face, they weren't completely shut.

Wanting to change the subject, she asked quietly, "What's the second thing?"

"What?", he snapped.

His temper was making him unable to think clearly. All he could hear in his mind were Feyre's almost welcoming thoughts about the possibility of an imminent death. The idea set off a feeling of complete despair and disgruntlement, and brought forth glimpses of memories and nightmares that almost sent him tumbling down to the floor to vomit.

He just wanted to come up to Feyre and _shake_ some life into her. Anything to get a reaction out of her. Some self-preservation instinct. Anything.

He knew he was going to fight until his last breath for her life, but she didn't seem so eager to do the same. And that pained and angered him in the same measure.

"You said there were two things," she mumbled.

His head tilted to the side in utter disbelief. She still didn't get it.

" _Me_ , Feyre. Me, of course."

Feyre blinked, seeming a bit startled. But her eyes darted straight to the ground, as if she was unable to bear his on her. She felt embarrassed, because she didn't deserve Rhysand's unyieldingly fierce commitment to her life. Not when she had so little respect for it. Not when she hadn't had respect for the life of those two faeries.

On some level, she was almost angry at Rhysand for being so intent on keeping her alive.

Cassian and Azriel were still fighting, but Rhys could tell by the slower, calmer pattern of sounds that they were paying full attention to their conversation. It didn't stop him, though.

"But I _can't_ do this on my own. You _need_ to fight for yourself. You need to _want_ to fight for yourself. Because I can't do what I'm supposed to do if I have to worry whether you're safe or not."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, those words echoed through as if she was only reliving them. She hugged herself, hearing Tamlin's voice streaming in her ears as if he was there. She shuddered, pushing that memory aside, and Rhys frowned at her sudden need to retract and shrink herself smaller, as if she needed to make herself less seen.

"You don't have to protect me," she muttered, quietly but firmly, "It's not your job."

"Yes, it is! You're...", he halted abruptly for a second, "part of my court. In that sense, you're mine to protect."

"I can protect myself!", she yelled.

"I know! Dammit, of course I know that, Feyre! But do you _want to_?", he asked, desperate.

She stared at him.

"It doesn't matter—it's none of your business whether I want to or not."

"Well, that's the problem, isn't it? As long as you say things like that or think like that, with all that's going on, I can't trust you to be out there by yourself!"

Feyre's lips trembled, but she bit them and hardened her expression as toughly as she could, even though there were tears starting to pool in her eyes. She hoped he didn't notice them when she grunted, aiming to hit a nerve:

"You sound just like him."

Silence.

The swords stopped resonating, but restarted quickly after.

Rhysand was fuming. His pupils were dilated and it made it seem like his irises were almost completely covered in darkness. His hands clenched into fists and in the back of her mind, she could almost see claws unearthing through his fingers. Claws once used to gently rip her lacy panties, now reappearing as he wrecked the study room.

There was red paint on the wall. There was furniture everywhere. There was broken glass flying around.

Her first reaction was to crouch down, covering her ears. The survival instincts she had long believed to be dormant kicked in, and she absentmindedly recoiled and enveloped herself in a bubble of thick, impenetrable air as the tears began pouring down her eyes and she whimpered.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it," she shrieked, shaking and hiding her face between her knees.

Fear, crippling fear travelled through her, sending spasms all over her body. She waited for the sounds—those of ancient, appalling magic spreading across the world, shattering everything at sight. But there was nothing. The only sound was of her own magic—and the piercing noises coming out of her which she just couldn't seem to control. Still, she didn't want to look up. She didn't want to meet that pair of green eyes, so unnervingly apologetic and regretful. She might not make it.

Rhys was paralyzed. Only five seconds had passed since she'd mouthed those words, but somehow they had set off something in her much more intense than in him. Of course they'd gotten under his skin—but that was obviously her intention. Her reaction, though, was what startled him way further. He’d barely had time to recover from the words when she crumbled down, crying and shielding herself as if something had attacked her. And her thoughts—

For a second there, he even glanced around to check for any menaces, because it'd made no sense.

Until it did.

And then—then it broke his fucking heart.

Cassian and Azriel were carefully approaching them, but he raised his hand gently to warn them, and they stopped midway.

Sweet tendrils of peaceful, soothing darkness caressed Feyre's shield. Hadn't they touched it so delicately and kindly, hadn't they felt so _familiar_ , she might've instinctively and quickly struck back against them.

Her sobs were making it harder and harder to breathe, but she forced herself to inhale deeply and try to retrieve some control.

When she finally looked up, the violet eyes that met her blurry ones, though, weren't the ones she expected—but they were the ones she needed. They took a strain off her chest and filled her with ease.

However, with the realization of what had just happened, of what she'd just done, any composure she might've regathered then, faded away, and her cries became even more afflicted. She retracted her powers back into her and didn't flinch when Rhys stood up from where he was crouched, slowly coming closer and kneeling before her.

He'd seen the relieved surprise on her face when she realized it was _him_ in front of her. Still, he didn't touch her—gave no signs that he intended to. He just stayed and waited patiently for her to try to calm herself down.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered quietly, hands covering her face.

"There's nothing to apologize, Feyre."

She hadn't been able to stop the cries, but something in his voice made the noises stop until she was only sobbing. She looked up at him to check if she'd detected the emotion correctly. And yes—he was hurting. It was as clear as day, even though he seemed to try to cover it up. His tone had been so despondent and heavy-hearted it made her mind immediately push her own sorrow aside; as if her _soul_ 's natural, innate instinct was to care for _his_ well-being first. As if her own existence depended on it.

It was a strange, unknown feeling to her. And yet, it felt so natural and organically inherent to her being—as if it'd always been there. Even before her or him or everything else that existed.

"Rhys...", she managed to choke out, but he quickly interrupted.

"You do know that I would never do anything to hurt you, right?", he asked, almost pleadingly.

She did. Even if she'd never thought about it consciously—she didn't have to.

Rhys was the one who'd fought for her Under the Mountain. When no one else would. When _he_ wouldn't. And even if he'd hurt her then, it was for her own safety. And even now, after everything, she could see in his eyes it still tormented him.

And it pained her to realize that she'd come to compare him to Tamlin. That she could even think he'd come to harm her in any way. He must've thought she was being petty and ungrateful, even though when she completely lost it, she never thought for one second it was _Rhys_ she was trying to shield herself from.

"I do," she whispered.

Something like relief washed over his expression, but it still didn't take away the pain in his eyes. Feyre's hands fidgeted, eager to reach out to him. Every cell in her body told her it was what she needed to do.

But something caught her eye on her side, and she wiped her tears to look at where Cassian and Azriel watched them, wary but sympathetic looks on their faces. Rhys didn't so much as glance at them when he spoke.

"Everything's fine here. Go find somewhere else to be."

And she understood—they were assessing whether or not _she_ was currently a threat to their High Lord. While she was so caught up being scared for herself, having an outburst at the mere thought of her former fiancé, _she_ was actually the one who looked as if she might accidentally attack someone, not the other way around.

But they batted their strong wings and flew away after they studied her state—probably only seeing how broken and completely _un_ threatening she looked. The courtyard was then filled with silence, disturbed only by Feyre's eventual sobs while she composed herself.

After a couple minutes, she finally felt like if she talked, her voice would come out steady enough.

"I apologize. I'm still... adjusting. To this body, to this life—sometimes I get a little carried away," she whispered, appearing ashamed, "I didn't mean what I said... I was just too caught up inside my own head. Please, don't be mad. I know you'd never mean to harm me."

" _Never_ , Feyre. If there's one thing I can promise you, it's that," he spoke seriously, "But, again, you have nothing to be sorry about. I, too, get stuck inside my own head sometimes. Bad memories have a tendency of popping up in our minds without warning.”

"How do you... deal?", she asked quietly.

"I don't allow them to consume me. I remind myself that I'm here, that I survived, that despite it all I have many things to be grateful for," Rhys smiled softly. Slowly, as if giving her time to stop him if she wished, he brought his hand up to gently stroke her cheek, speaking with surprising intensity, "You, for example. You're the one thing I'm most thankful for."

Of course, Feyre thought. Her strange, unnatural formation and rebirth made her the perfect weapon that gave him a slight hope of winning this war.

She absentmindedly leaned into his hand, and her eyes pooled with tears again. His gaze on her became so heavy she longed for any excuse to look away. But she didn't want to lose his touch, nor their sudden proximity. So her reaction was to just awkwardly sink her head into his chest, resting her forehead against his tattooed clavicle.

Feyre felt small and even a bit pathetic, but she didn't care enough to move away. Not in front of him. She closed her eyes and breathed him in, hoping she was doing it discreetly enough not to appear too creepy. His citric, salty scent filled her lungs and eased her mind like an inebriating, appeasing inhalant.

Rhysand promptly wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in and holding her head to him. He thought he might never get used to her presence—and moreover, he'd never get over the overwhelming, sinking feeling of serenity that washed over him whenever she touched him. Even more so when she was the one who reached out first.

But she was still silently weeping, and her affliction bothered him to no end.

"Do you think I made the right call? Leaving the Spring Court?", she asked before she could even think about it.

Rhys' arms tensed around her.

"I personally think it was the right choice, but if you're regretting it now, I'll stand by you if it's what will make you happy," he muttered, restrained. "But since you're asking my thoughts on the matter, I think I might never have you far enough away from him as I'd like to," he said, sounding way rougher than he intended.

Feyre leaned back an inch to look up at him, curious about his sudden change of tone. His eyes were dark and hard on her, but he blinked and it was gone in a second; they quickly softened, only expressing a bit of concern.

"I'm sorry. Sometimes I'm unable to stop my _primal fae instincts_. And I feel very... protective... of you," he said, though then urging to clarify himself, "Don't think it's in any way patronizing or condescending. I just... it's probably in my nature. I don't mean to scare you."

"You don't. Scare me, I mean," she quickly answered—then admitted, a bit unsure, "I feel protective of you too."

She could've sworn she'd felt his heart miss a beat in his chest, but she continued.

"Tamlin overbeared me. He locked me up to keep me safe. Not to protect me, but to protect his own sanity, his own wellbeing. You're protecting me by training me to be able to defend myself. I'm sorry if I ever compared you to him. And when I... _reacted_ like that... I never actually thought you were going to lash out on me. I was just spinning and losing it and my magic took over. I'm sorry."

"I told you not to apologize," he said softly, "I get it."

Feyre nodded, acknowledging then that apologizing had become her automatic response and instinct after every argument with Tamlin. After each time she was in the right, but still obliged and swallowed her own needs for his sake.

Rhysand stared at her knowingly, as if he'd understood what she'd suddenly realized. He lifted her chin up and forced her to bear his alluring, insistent eyes on her.

"I will _never_ allow him hurt you again. We're going to train until the day you're able to overthrow _me_. You won't ever have to feel vulnerable again, against anyone. If he ever so much as lifts a finger against you again, I want you to be able to easily rip him to shreds, if that's what you wish to do," he spoke seriously, and she lightly shuddered at the brutal words. "You're already astoundingly powerful and strong, Feyre. I just want you to not _forget_ that. I want you to be able to not feel threatened by anyone, including me."

"I'm not threatened by you," she murmured.

Rhysand simpered—Feyre had no idea how much it meant to him that she didn't fear his power. That she didn't look at him like he could—or better, _would_ —obliterate everything in his sight with half a thought. And whenever he flared his magic around her, her eyes did not brighten in panic, but rather in awe.

And his expression—he would sometimes get carried away looking at her, but this time, it was filled with something much more real and strong. Almost like—

But no, that couldn't be.

Before Feyre could even process or grasp it, his smile then turned into something purely feline.

"Then back it up," he stood up, offering her a hand.

It took her a minute, but she managed to smirk back and grabbed his hand. He gently and effortlessly pulled her onto her feet, and took a bit more time than necessary to let her go.

She didn't mind it.

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, comments and kudos are welcomed :)


End file.
